The Magic Engineer (31 page)

“Where did you get this?”

“From one of our traders in Spidlar,” answers the square-bearded Fydel.

“This doesn’t look like—”

“It’s not the original. I had it copied, and then had him send it on.”

“That was a good idea.” Jeslek glances at the copy on the white parchment of Fairhaven.

“I assume you are following this to track the recipient?”

“We already know. It’s a trader named Liedral—”

“That’s obvious.”

“—who works out of Jellico. She generally passes for a man, but does not pay dues to Fairhaven. She uses the back roads. Because she is less successful, no one has paid much attention. That’s also because she comes from an old Jellico family. Her brother is active in local politics.”

“How active?”

“He’s on Sterol’s payroll, I think.”

“Oh…so our good friend Sterol continues his spy network?”

Fydel raises both eyebrows. “You would expect any less?”

“Not really.” Jeslek grins.

“Do you want some sort of accident to occur?”

“Not yet. I need to think about this.” Jeslek looks at the glass on the table, then quickly out the window and into the rain.

“Is that all?”

Jeslek nods, but does not turn as Fydel leaves and closes the
door behind him. Then he looks at the mirror and concentrates. The image of Dorrin appears in the mirror. This time the smith is working on something black and small. Abruptly, Dorrin looks up, and his eyes appear to meet Jeslek’s before the mists close over the image.

“Hmmm…” The Black smith is getting stronger, much stronger. Still, he is young and attracted to the female trader. Jeslek paces from one side of the tower room to the other.

Then, too, there is the problem with Fydel. Delaying giving the letter to him for nearly a season—that was a bit much, almost an insult. Jeslek laughs, thinking about the ships nearing completion.

Dorrin struggles with the wedge-shaped warren, slowly turning the clayey soil to extend Rylla’s garden for the winterspice and potatoes. Gardening is even harder than smith work, or so it seems, but that may be because of all the small insects that seek him out.

He brushes away a horsefly, not wanting to spend time or energy on wards. He wipes his forehead, wrinkling his nose at the pile of manure he must yet turn into the soil. While there is certainly a growing market for spices, or will be, if he can raise more, he still forgets that even wonderful ideas take work.

With a deep breath he starts on the second furrow. Halfway down the row, he wipes his forehead again, swatting at some other flying insect. He glances toward the knoll above the pond, mentally measuring. If…He shakes his head. Already he is aiming at another project. He has not even set the foundation stones for the cottage and smithy, and he is planning piping water.

He takes up the warren again, thinking wistfully of the steaming smithy and hammers, and even of making nails. He laughs.

By midmorning he has completed what he has set out to do. Tomorrow he will plant the seeds and cuttings. Rylla can do some of the watering.

“That’s not a garden; it’s a field. I suppose you expect me to water and weed it?” Rylla’s voice is gruff, but there is a sparkle in her eyes.

“Only some of the time. We’ll need it all.”

“Have more spices than…” She coughs. “Can you sell them all?”

“I hope not, but I bet we will. Even the potatoes on the end.”

“This something you’ve learned from your blade friends?”

“They made Brede a squad leader and added another squad.”

“Ah…and the Council’s never been known to be generous with its coin, or favorable to someone tinted Black.”

Dorrin thinks about the need for…something…to stop the Whites. “Do you have any saltpeter?”

“Not if you’re a-fooling with black powder. ’Sides, a good White will just set it off from a distance.”

“I had something else in mind.”

“Don’t want my cottage in flames, Dorrin.”

“I’ll use the old root cellar.”

“I’ll get ye some redberry.” Rylla walks slowly back into the cottage.

Dorrin hopes her comment is tacit assent. Is he trying too much? Probably, but time is growing short. Something is happening, something beyond the White Wizards’ trying to bankrupt the Spidlarian traders, or even take over Spidlar itself. The Whites are not all that good in battle, and yet they control almost all of eastern Candar. Have they accomplished it all through subversion? Greed? Bribery?

He thinks of Fairhaven itself and laughs at the irony. They have held what they hold because they have provided a basically more orderly government than what preceded—and they really do not govern. They let the old Dukes, Counts, Viscounts and Prefects govern, just leaving a White Wizard at hand in each of the old domains. Shaking his head, he turns and follows Rylla.

Dorrin guides Meriwhen along the rain-splashed paving stones, past the Red Lion and then past the Tankard. The beggar woman and her child sit on the weathered mounting block that once served a building that no longer exists.

“A copper, master? Even a half-penny, for a widow and her child?”

Dorrin knows he is not exactly charitable, but the woman’s whine gets on his nerves, and he has never seen her do anything but beg. He ignores her cries and rides toward the chandlery.

Somehow the building looks different. His eyes study the crossed candles of the sign, and he realizes that there is no name above them. He enters the store, carrying both saddlebags and staff. The potbellied stove, unneeded now that the cold weather has passed, still stands in the middle of the floor, and the oak counter runs along the right side of the room. The hangings still block the way to the back room, and Roald still stands behind the counter.

“Yes, ser?” asks Roald, eyeing the staff warily.

“The changes…” Dorrin offers vaguely.

“Not too many, ser. Ser Willum’s son and widow have retained me to continue the business and to train young Halvor.”

“I had not heard the details.”

“The highwaymen, ser. The guards found his body, but his goods and profits were gone.” Roald glances at the bags Dorrin carries. “You were the one with the elaborate toys?”

Dorrin nods. “Ser Willum held them in some favor.”

“Perhaps we might take one or two, ser Dor…”

“Dorrin.”

“Thank you, ser. We might take one or two, ser, but since we must rely on others for travel now…”

“I understand.” Dorrin removes an assortment of the smaller toys. “I would presume that the smaller ones would be more appropriate.”

“I would think so. Perhaps the boat, here, and the mill? For, say, a half-silver?”

Dorrin smiles politely. “Even at his best, ser Willum paid almost four apiece.”

“Ah…but we cannot trade that much now. The best, and I would not offend, ser Dorrin, would be a half silver and a penny.”

Dorrin can sense Roald’s fear and concerns, and he nods to the man. “Times are difficult all over. Six it is.”

Roald smiles, as much in relief as pleasure. “A moment, ser.”

Dorrin packs away the others, leaving the boat and mill on the counter.

“Here you be.”

“Thank you.” Dorrin inclines his head. “Might there be other iron items that would be of use?”

Roald pauses, then shakes his head. “None that I can think of.”

“Thank you.”

As he leaves, he thinks about Roald’s manners. The clerk had been too deferential to a mere toymaker or smith, not really as interested in haggling as in getting Dorrin out of the store. And Roald needs iron goods, but doesn’t want to get them from Dorrin. Is Roald worried about Dorrin, or something else? For whatever reason, it’s clear that he will have to find other ways to sell his toys, or other items to sell, or others to sell to. What about Jasolt or Fyntal? Or should he talk to Hasten at the Guild?

Dorrin puts the staff in the lanceholder and swings up into the saddle, turning Meriwhen toward the harbor and the small, shedlike building that holds the Guild. The rail outside the building is empty of other mounts, and the wind off the harbor carries an icy edge to it, as if winter lingers on the water a season behind the land.

Carrying his staff, Dorrin steps through the open pine door, looking for Hasten in the comparative dimness of the long room.

“Who ye be looking for?” Hasten looks up from some sort of ledger.

“I’m Dorrin, Hasten, if you might recall…”

“Oh…the artisan fellow.” The gray-haired man sits back in his chair. “Sit down. Don’t mind me, but the old bones haven’t recovered from winter.”

Dorrin sits, wondering if Hasten is the same man who had been so skittish the last time he had come to join the Guild.

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you might have some ideas—”

“Ideas? Of course, I have ideas, but the free ones are worthless, usually.” The older man chuckles.

“—about who else besides Willum trades in novelties like my toys.”

“Ah, yes, poor Willum. Fyntal told him it was a bad idea to go overland to Fenard, not that you can go any other way. Ha…ha…Traders in toys? Hmmmm? You make those fancy ones. I don’t know for sure, but that young fellow, Jasolt, ships high-end goods to Suthya. And Vyrnil—he’s over by the third pier—he has something going with the Hamorians. They’re big on novelties. Maybe that other old fellow…Risten…he’s got a small place by Jasolt’s.” Hasten shrugs. “Offhand, that’d be where I’d be starting.”

“Where is Jasolt?”

“Oh…he’s at sea now, I understand, but his store is on the short street—Pearapple Place, he calls it—behind Willum’s place. Is it true that his clerk Roald is running the chandlery?”

“That’s what I understand.” Dorrin shifts in the hard chair.

“Terrible mistake, if you ask me. No business sense at all. Good at selling to townspeople, but no sense of value.”

Dorrin rises slowly. “I appreciate your advice.”

“Not at all. Not at all. You won’t mind me if I don’t see you out, master Dorrin?”

“Darkness, no.”

“Don’t forget that your annual dues need to be paid before midsummer.”

“I won’t.” Dorrin heads back into the welcome cool of the harbor breeze. Even the faint odor of decaying fish is preferable to the close Guild office.

He fastens his staff back in place and rides down to the end of the third pier. He finds the sign easily enough—Vyrnil’s. There are no pictures, just the name, indicating the higher nature of the trader’s clientele.

Dorrin walks inside the small building, looking at the open bins along both sides of the walls. In each are different goods, and each set of goods is neatly organized. A circle of chairs is
formed around the desk in the center of the small building. The single man in the building rises and steps toward Dorrin.

“Hmmm…dark staff, brown clothes, red-haired and younger than the average tradesman—you wouldn’t be Dorrin, would you?” asks the white-haired man with a tanned but wrinkled face. The trader wears a faded blue shirt above equally faded trousers. His boots are dark polished leather.

“Ah…yes. How did you know?”

“Fyntal described you at the midwinter Council meeting. He said you were dangerous, but most orderly. Then Willum told me you made ingenious toys. Willum’s dead, and Roald doesn’t travel. Jasolt’s at sea. So”—he shrugs—“I guessed. It impresses people. What can I do for you?”

“Buy some toys,” Dorrin suggests, responding as directly as the trader has opened the conversation.

“I’d be happy to, in principle. In practice, that depends on the toys and the price.” The trader gestures to a small table beside the desk.

Dorrin sets out the toys.

Vyrnil studies each in turn, slowly, checking each one, walking around the table as he looks, as if he can never quite stay in one place. “You’re stamping the gears here, rather than cutting them, aren’t you?”

“For toys, it doesn’t seem to make much difference.”

“It probably doesn’t. Besides, who could afford to cut gears for small toys? The stamping idea is a nice touch.” He sets down the boat. “I like this best, but they’ll all sell in Hamor and Nordla. I won’t quibble the way Willum did. Four pennies each, rounded up to the nearest half-silver.”

Dorrin lays out the ten toys he has left.

“That’d be four and a half. Let’s say five, if you’ll let me see the whole lot first next time.”

Dorrin studies the trader.

“How did I know? I have a boy watching the competitors. Roald’s sharp enough to buy some of what you offer, but won’t take risks. And no one makes uneven numbers of different styles, especially someone as orderly as you.”

Dorrin shakes his head and laughs. “I’m afraid you have me pegged, ser.”

Vyrnil returns the laugh. “No. You have me pegged. I’m the one buying.”

Dorrin shrugs, even as Vyrnil is counting out the five silvers.

“Here you go, Dorrin. I probably can’t take any more until after midsummer. I hope to see you then.” He walks Dorrin to the door and watches as the younger man mounts.

Dorrin tries not to frown as he turns Meriwhen back toward Yarrl’s. Who is Vyrnil? Just an abnormally sharp trader? Or more? He certainly has no sense of chaos about him, and his building is orderly, even if the man is personally overwhelming.

The scent of rain builds as Meriwhen carries him past the Tankard and back uphill into upper Diev.